Tuesday, 23 September 2014

Hello folks, all who stop by here. Today I am
celebrating my 300th blog entry with a very special guest post from a
very special poet and blogger - Adura Ojo. I came across her
poetry/writing about two years ago, from the Romantic Friday Writers website and her own blog. Her writing spoke to me because I too, like
her, straddle different cultures and continents, and because I did a bit of my
growing up in Nigeria, where her roots lie. She has a unique and
forthright voice, with the characteristic lyrical lilt of West Africa.

Here she talks about life as an immigrant and 'minority other', the
identity issues we struggle with, and her debut poetry collection - Life is a
Woman Breaking Eggs.

Over to you Adura, the page is yours.

What ‘Life*’ Taught Me about Identity
& the Immigrant Experience

First
I’d like to say thank you, Nilanjana for giving me the opportunity to guest
post on your blog and to meet your readers. My name is Adura Ojo. I am a
blogger, poet and writer. Recently I published my poetry book: Life
is a Woman Breaking Eggs. I’m British-Nigerian. I wanted ‘Life*’
to reflect my identity and how I see the world. This was important
to me because of life events that helped shape the individual I had become. One
of these is the immigrant experience – my main focus in this post.

Life
in Nigeria

My
parents took me back to Nigeria when I was three. I lived in Nigeria for
eighteen years, so a major part of my formative years was spent there up to my
first degree and graduation. Identity was never an issue. It was a
given. My ethnic group – Yoruba – is one of the three major ethnic groups in
Nigeria. I doubt that most of us ever question the ease with which
we live in our various countries of origin. Whether you are Indian or Nigerian,
you go about your daily business with relative ease. A conversation with the
customer service assistant at the post office is not a hassle because you
understand each other’s language, local names and use of English.

Life
in the UK

One
of the things that exasperated me the most when I came back to live in the UK
was the need to always have to spell my name. It was a never ending ritual. It
was a constant reminder that I was the other. Other experiences included being
ignored, not being served, people twisting what you said, pretending to
misunderstand what you said, being given an instruction repeatedly though you’ve
done nothing that clearly shows that you misunderstood the instruction, - and
the one that’s really hard to stomach - people taking your idea as theirs.
(Presumably their ears took a vacation when you spoke!) Dealing with one’s
experience as the ‘minority other’ can be traumatic. It can leave the
individual feeling alienated, unappreciated, frustrated and angry. I
experienced all of these emotions as portrayed in ‘The Museum’, ‘Say
My Name’, ‘Eggs Crack Easy’ and ‘Zebra Crossing*.’
Racism compounds the diaspora experience because it gives the oppressor power
to stigmatize a group of people who are already feeling alienated.

What
‘Life’* Taught Me

Identity
is one of those fundamental needs that define humanity. It can also produce
conflicts within the individual. The diaspora experience is one of those
conflicts, in particular the immigrant experience. Having lived in Nigeria
until I was 21, I found myself declared an ‘immigrant’ in my land of birth.
British institutions and way of life were strange to me. It seemed like the
system was designed to keep me out rather than welcome me in. It took years of
grit and determination to not drown in a sea of frustration and alienation.
Holding on to my core identity sustained me and provided a shield against the
trauma of being a minority other.

As
I held on to my Nigerian identity, I also opened up to what I liked about
British-ness. The poem ‘French’ was a revelation to me. It was a
reflection on my experiences while on holiday in Morocco. I was so irate, so
righteously indignant and arrogant that no one in the Moroccan restaurant spoke
English! It made me realize how proud I was of my British identity. – That I am
as fiercely proud to be British as I am to be Nigerian; and though the winter
months alienate my soul and racism still rears its ugly head occasionally,
nothing changes the fact I am British. A lot of my humour is British and I
share the dark humour that comes with being British. I am Nigerian because it
is my soul. It is how I breathe, eat, stand with my hands on my waist and form
the words out of my mouth. The biggest lesson from my experience of being ‘the
minority other’ is the importance of holding on to one’s core. No matter what
happens in the dominant wider society, what keeps a human being sane is their
core. Not recognizing or appreciating one’s core identity can be traumatic and
in extreme cases contribute to a mental breakdown. What keeps me
whole is my identity – all of it. My identity is the sum total of what I accept
and what I reject. It is a source of comfort. More than two decades
later, I don’t mind spelling my name. I would like it though if people would
just say my name before asking me to spell it.

*The book, Life is a Woman breaking eggs is also referred to
as ‘Life.’

*The Museum, Say My Name, Eggs Crack Easy, Zebra
Crossing and French are all poems
in the book: Life is a Woman Breaking Eggs.

Life is a Woman
Breaking Eggs is available on Amazon Kindle in most countries.

Adura Ojo is a British-Nigerian author, poet,
blogger and a mother of two. She is the author of Life is a Woman Breaking Eggs, her debut poetry collection. She
graduated in English Studies at the University of Ibadan. She later bagged
degrees in Law and Social Work in the UK. She has professional experience in
varied employment roles as lecturer, trainer and mental health practitioner.
Her poems have been published in Sentinel Champions, Sentinel Nigeria, The
Poetic Pinup Revue, and a number of websites. She lives in the UK where she is
currently working on her debut novel and a second poetry collection.

My thanks to Adura for that very interesting and insightful post. (And boy, does spelling out names resonate with me or what?!) My own feeling is that as the planet becomes smaller and rounder, learning to integrate, assimilate and let diverse 'others' enrich not just the minorities but also the majority will continue to be relevant.

If you have travelled or lived in cultures other than your own, then I/we would love to hear your take.

Open to all genres - Fiction works can be - Adult, YA, MG. All entries maximum 1,000 words.

PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT WHEN LINKING UP.

Email Denise if you have more questions:

den.covey@gmail.com

You wake up, look in the bathroom mirror, and a different face looks back at you.

My entry is a flash, an excerpt from a much longer story.

Spills

The
water felt unusually cold in Pratik’s cupped hands, and even colder against his
shut eyelids. He quickly found the towel, and as he emerged from the
folds, his eyes fell on the mirror. The shock was unnerving, though
this was not the first time. He dabbed his face again, and scrutinised it
closely.

The
changes were subtle - his eyebrows arched now at a minutely different angle,
his earlobes sat flatter against his head, his lips were narrower, the jaws a
shade wider, and the stubble on it a darker chestnut. He looked down at his
hands, the veins were corded, the skin flaky, the fingertips squat, squarer
nails, and rough. The forearm shorter somehow, bulkier than his; limbs of
an older person, older than his twenty-eight years. He looked back into
the mirror, and shuddered. The eyes were the most frightening of all, a
different person looked out of them and back at him, ruthlessly cruel eyes, without a shred of compassion or humour. Just like a serial killer's, he thought wryly.

He came
out and sent a text to his boss, working was not an option today. Panchali was
still asleep, she smiled in some dream as he looked at her and wondered how to
break it to her - this sickness in his brain. She sensed his presence and
half woke, reached out for his hand, and clasping it, smiled wider and went
back to sleep. He had planned to talk about their future this coming
weekend, but now - he sighed, sat next to her and tried to untangle his
thoughts. Perhaps this part of his life was better witnessed first-hand
rather than heard narrated?

He woke
her gently and told her, there was no time for details, just broad outlines of
what to expect. Her sleepy eyes flared wide in surprise but then
became attentive as he spoke, his words urgent and slightly
incoherent. She shut her eyes and listened, touched him as he talked, ran
her fingers along his jaw, traced the curve of his ears and eyebrows with her
index. The rigor started even as his words petered away.

Still
with her eyes closed she kissed him lightly and said, “Your voice is just the
same, did you know?”

“Will
you stay?”

“Of
course,” she threw back the covers and rose, a swift fluid dancer’s movement
like a swan taking flight. “I'll get some coffee.”

***

He lay
on the bed, shivering uncontrollably with his eyes open, conscious but
unseeing. The tinkle of spoons from the kitchen slowly faded. The
sounds of the city coming awake outside - the auto-rickshaws shuttling the
first commuters, the loud airhorn of a bus, three notes of a conch at a neighbour’s shrine, tram and temple bells – all receded and regrouped into sounds
of a different time and place.

It was
quieter, only the lap-lap of water licking banks, punctuated occasionally
by the faraway rhythmic slap of oars pulling away from a pier. The
lane was half as narrow as the canal it bordered, the cobbles slippery with
rain fallen earlier. Sparse lamps and shafts of light from the odd window
shimmered, reflected in the oily waters, but lost the battle against
darkness. He walked quickly, primordial rage and hate roiling inside him,
walked so as to leave the torment behind. Was it his fault that
he was made this way, misshapen and crooked? He was stronger than two men, and
could outperform many even with his dwarf’s hunchbacked body. Yet no-one
would give him a job. He was a knife-thrower, reduced to a monstrosity, a
butt for jokes, shunned, at most tolerated, a demeaning spectacle his
only livelihood.

Four rough men stood chatting ahead, barring his way. Pratik stopped a few feet
away. One of them turned and looked, another said, “Byata kooNjo*” and all
of them guffawed. His rage spun into a red hot fireball, and his hate was
a sharp dagger twisted in his side. He drew two knives from his
waist, and threw them with unerring aim. One of the men fell with a
gurgling sound, the other screamed and toppled into the canal. He ran and
rammed his head into the next man, hitting the midriff, winding his victim and
leaving him gasping for breath on the ground. The last man was on
top of him now, both locked into combat. He fended several blows, but could
not bring his opponent down. A deep breath and he launched into the man with his left, a powerful blow that made the fellow stumble. In a
split second he reached down and pulled the last knife, but he was caught in a
melee of limbs, the winded one was up now and they were two against
one. Pratik slashed viciously and felt the knife plunge into soft
flesh. The nearest man let out an animal squeal and Pratik pulled out
and half turned on his ankle and slashed upward with the knife again and felt
the blade slip into flesh and the warm rush of blood over his wrist. The last
man crumpled and lay in a pool of light from a street-lamp. Pratik saw with a stab of sudden panic that it was his own face
under the light, his unaltered face he saw every day in the mirror. He
moved closer, his heart thudding, but his feet scrabbled on the edge and he fell
and knew only the blackness and coldness and the smell of the canal.

***

“Punch?”

“Mmm
hmm? You okay?”

“Yeah,
I’m fine now. Did I scare you?”

“Hah,
you wish!”

“No,
seriously.”

“Well,
not exactly the best half hour I have had with you, but it’s okay, you didn’t
kill me.”

“No, I
killed somebody else.”

“What?”

“I killed men. I was a dwarf, a monster, a psychopath. I re-live events again. Go back to a past life somewhere. It bothers me. How much of that previous me spills into this one here and now?”

“Listen darling, I don't know about spills and splashes, but in this birth, you’re you. Pratik Sinha. And you’re mine.
Don’t dare forget.”

soil that dusts my feet might
have crumbed theirs too.I belong to the third generation of a "Partition" family. My family origins lie in a village that is deep in rural Bangladesh now. I have this dream of going back there on a visit some day. The picture is of a traditional Bengali temple in a 400 year-old rural homestead in West Bengal.

I have been experimenting with variations on fixed forms :) I call this one a quinnet, a sonnet with five line stanzas instead of four. The concluding couplet remains. Seventeen instead of fourteen lines, prime numbers are so much more elegant :) What do you think of the form? Of the poem? and experimental verses?